When a Brit thinks the U.K. is having a cold winter, she need only step off a plane at John F. Kennedy International Airport to realize she‘s had an easy ride. With a 5-hour delay due to the snow, defrosting of our plane, and fear that we wouldn’t fly, I was pleasantly relieved to arrive in a snowy New York City, but, boy, was it cold!

Packing for February Fashion Week isn’t the easiest. You need layers. And lots of them, which might have explained my two overweight cases. But this does allow you to pull out wardrobe favorites. I hardly took off my Patsy-inspired leopard Burberry sensation, patent Dr. Martens, nor my trusty Gucci wool cape. With the help of MatchesFashion.com, I had enough bags and shoes to see me through the temperamental weather, which surprised us all with its snowy slush, rainy showers, and then mornings of perfect sunshine.

Already by Day One attending my first shows and presentations, I realized there was a strong political feel in the air. Banners, placards, T-shirts, and carefully crafted soundtracks gave this Fashion Week a different feel in a changed political climate. Proud to be a woman, I jumped in with both feet and appreciated designers‘ thought and bravery on the subject. I practically tried to steal Adam Lippes‘s Girl Power banner and slept in Jonathan Simkhai’s I Am a Feminist T-shirt.

Back to the shows . . . fellow Brit Victoria Beckham’s sleek show shone; Tory Burch excelled in chic florals, double bows, and bejeweled culottes; and Michael Kors’s early start gave us reason to celebrate with his strong and assured display. Marchesa displayed its usual magic. Self Portrait’s New York moment was a real hit with less lace and more suede hot pants. Presentations were at their finest with naughty bags from Edie Parker, sparkly floors and velvets at Frame, silver ensembles at Rosetta Getty, and oversize shirts and double denims from J.Crew.

Evenings were filled with dinners in the city (De Niro’s Locanda Verde has become a firm favorite, as have the moules frites at Balthazar), cocktails aplenty, and even a touch of rock ’n‘ roll at The Kills‘s impromptu gig downtown.

With my car waiting outside to whisk me to the airport after Ralph Lauren’s exquisite masterpiece of a show; I could still smell the thousands of orchids that lined the walls, staircases, and ceilings of his Madison Avenue store.